Suffering in Silence
by MooseandSquirrel
Summary: Re-posted with a new title. Formerly "Doubts." Thank God for an excellent beta. "He smiled bitterly. For once, no masks. No lines to recite. No roles to play."
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I have been absent from the fanfic world for almost twelve years. But, the adventures of Castle and Beckett brought me in from the storm. Good to see you all again.

I have no idea where this one came from; especially since I have not written anything non-work-related in years. So, bear with me. I have devoured all of the post- "47 Seconds" fic I can find, and, sadly, mine refused to allow "The Event" to be fixed.

If you like, I can always take a whack at Beckett's thoughts if anyone out there wants to see what the muses have in store for me.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. And, I am broke. So, sue me if you dare. You'll get nothing but lint and dog-eared books.

…

He watched the raindrops slowly slide down the window, his breath gently fogging the glass. In. Out. Keep breathing, he reminded himself.

He had to do that often, he recalled. In. Out.

Below him, the city continued to move, albeit in fits and starts. He saw the ants of humanity moving quickly, from doorway to doorway, from the warmth of a lobby to the chill of a waiting cab. The mist rose from the streets, making everything fuzzy.

He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. The heavy rocks glass felt sweaty in his hand. He barely noticed that he was clenching it until his fingernails turned white.

The lights were low, and no sunlight cut through the clouds above him. He saw shadows in his office, and behind each and every one of them, a doubt lurked. He closed his eyes, wanting to lose the memories of the day.

He couldn't. In. Out.

His chest felt tight, his head filled with cotton, and, were he to speak, his voice would have been caked with rust.

What a day.

He turned to his desk, saw the laptop waiting for him. The cursor was blinking slowly, much like a heartbeat. It was the one constant in his life, the one thing that never failed to answer him.

Writing was his one true gift. His way with words. His ability to transport his readers to a world where good triumphs over evil, the wrongs of the world are righted, and the good guy always gets the girl.

The girl. In. Out.

It always came down to the girl.

Didn't it_ always_?

He snorted, moved to the desk, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. He shifted the laptop to his thighs and started to type.

He willed himself to breathe. He never had to remind himself when he was writing.

He quickly reread what he had written and immediately deleted it. In. Out.

He tried again. The words seemed to mock him. They came sporadically, as if he was unsure of what they were trying to uncover for him. He tried to type smoothly, but he was struck by long pauses after each completed phrase. He felt his breath for the first time since he started to write in that booth all those years ago.

In. Out. In. Out.

He let out a long hiss and dropped his feet to the floor. He closed the document without saving it to his hard drive. It was drivel, anyway. This, his one escape, the one place where he could always purge the emotion, longing, and want, was no longer his alone. It would forever, inextricably, be linked with one person.

Yet, he was not sure he could bear to see her again.

In. Out.

And, without his words, what was he?

…

He jerked awake, the last tendrils of the dream leaving him, melting back into the shadows of the room. He could have sworn he saw her in the corner of the room, lounging in his chair with a book on her lap, reading what he had tried to write, with her brow furrowed and her lips pursed in disapproval.

He blinked, and she was gone.

Just like today.

He was not a brooder by nature. Yet, he could lock himself in his office for days with nothing but a legal pad, coffee cup, and fresh set of pencils; and at the end of his self-imposed exile, his prose would emerge, polished, taut, and hungry. But now, the only thing he wanted was to escape. Escape the life he had made for himself, the routines, the assurances that familiarity gave him.

He picked up his jacket and keys and headed out the door.

He began to walk, not knowing where he was going. The air smelled musty, as if the rain had cleaned away most of the grime and dust but hadn't quite finished its job. His head began to clear, the cobwebs slowly fading from his brain.

He walked for over an hour, passing by small shops, food stands, hole-in-the-wall eateries. Normally, he would have stopped in or window-shopped; but now, he found himself cut off from his natural curiosity. He absent-mindedly watched people through the windows, unable to hear their words. Had this been any other day, he would have supplied the dialogue automatically in his head. The accents, the inflections, the tones of their words would have been imprinted on his mind, all catalogued and stored away for future use.

But this had been no ordinary day. He had heard everything.

He was alone. Without his abilities. Without his identity. He shoved his hands down into his pockets, lowered his head, and became fascinated with the tips of his shoes making small strides along the pavement. He barely noticed the other shoes that quickly flitted into his field of vision and back out again, making no lasting impression on his mind.

He walked for another hour. When he finally looked up, hands tightly clenched within his pockets, the sun was going down, and he had no idea what street he was on. He flinched, seeing a wisp of curled brown hair whip around a corner. He mentally berated himself.

It wasn't her.

He kept walking, feeling the cold start to seep into his muscles, making his legs ache. Finding himself far from the beaten path of his routine, he still couldn't make himself worry about that particular fact.

Shadows emerged as the sun began its descent behind the buildings and the streetlights flicked on, feeble in their initial appearance. His breath came sharply as the shadows lengthened.

No.

Not here.

Even as he was lost in his wanderings, his doubts were here. They followed him, undulating beneath every surface he viewed. He closed his eyes, willing them to just go away.

He saw them in the darkness. They were growing, multiplying, changing. His head started to pound. His eyes snapped open.

Fine. He looked around himself, found the way to the nearest intersection, and luckily found a cab. He slowly eased his way onto the seat, gave the driver his address, and settled back into the seat.

His hands were still in his pockets, still clenched tightly.

…

For once, he was glad they weren't home. He could not cope with the idea of pretending that everything was okay. _Just another day at the office. No, not a troubling day, just very tired, is all. I really do need to get some writing done…I may stay home tomorrow and knock out a few chapters. No, no, nothing's wrong. Just deadlines._

He smiled bitterly. For once, no masks. No lines to recite. No roles to play.

Just him, his books, and his thoughts. For what little good they did him today.

He did not know what tomorrow would bring. He did not know what he would do to pass the time. He did not know what he would do to try to forget.

He did not know what he could do…without her.

…

A/N: Angsty, I know. But, after that episode, I think it could've been a lot worse.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow. After a twelve-year absence, I received a review, over 300 story hits and five author/story alerts. Many thanks to those who added me, and to Phosphorescent for telling me I should try this from Beckett's POV.

Disclaimer: Heard of the phrase "judgment-proof?" I own nothing, I am worth nothing. Figure I am safe.

Spoilers: Up to and including 4x20, "The Limey." For the purposes of the story, "Headhunters" has yet to occur.

She watched the raindrops slowly slide down the glass of the small windows in The Other Captain's office. Keep thinking, she told herself.

She got up from her desk, the lights of the precinct mostly turned out, her steps were illuminated only by the small shards of light from the desk lamps inadvertently left on. She slowly walked to the break room, feeling her way to the counter rather than seeing her path before her. She glanced back into the bullpen, and she swore she could see him sitting there, head bowed, phone in hand, the glow from the latest app or internet search lighting his face.

She blinked, and he was gone.

Just like today.

She couldn't put her finger on it. The shift in him was so abrupt that she felt dazed. She waited with bated breath, so sure he was about to say the words she had been so terrified yet thrilled to finally hear, right there in the middle of the precinct, surrounded by her friends and the chaos of her life, her calling.

As usual, something interrupted him. Something _always_ did with them, whether it was the job, her Wall, murderers, Ryan, Esposito…

She rubbed her eyes as she stood there, waiting for the coffee to brew. The curls of the rich, aromatic steam wafted across her face, but they smelled muted, faded. The fog of the day wrapped around her thoughts, and all she wanted was some clarity, some respite from the mire of undisciplined thinking.

She wandered back out into the bullpen, again looking across at The Other Captain's office. Not so long ago, she would have more likely than not seen Her Captain in that office, combing through obscure reports into the night along with her. Nothing needed be said between them, for they shared the bond of The Job, the role of Speaker for the Dead.

She shook her head, a wistful smile crossing her face, only to be quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and small frown. That was exactly the kind of statement he would have made a crack about, especially given the title she had just conferred upon her job.

He would have gone on for at least a few minutes, trying to discover exactly which Card novels she had read and her opinions on whether Ender was a hero or a villain.

Now, she knew he would not have said anything. Just stood there with the blankest expression she had ever seen on his face.

That was the splinter in her mind, the thing that had completely thrown her world into uncertainty. He was by no means blank; he was full of expression, of emotion. She had had no trouble reading him from the day she had met him. Whether or not she would admit to herself what she knew she saw was something altogether different.

She found herself at the window in The Other Captain's office, the mug tightly clenched in her hands as she scanned the skyline. She did not notice how heavy it felt in her hands, how there was an almost imperceptible shaking of her fingers.

She knew what she had seen. She had known for some time. Before, it was an annoyance. But then, she experienced it. The perceptible shift in him. The passion. The complete commitment to the story of the victims, their lives cut short by injustice.

And…to their partnership. They were unstoppable. She didn't care what people said, whispered when they saw them together in the precinct or at the crime scenes. She knew the rumors, the speculation, the conjectures. She even knew that Ryan and Esposito were in for forty bucks in the office pool.

Nothing could stop them when they were in sync. They always pushed that much harder, that much further, that much deeper into the story because they knew there was always something missing, something just dancing out of their reach. And, without fail, he would force her to look at it from a different angle even if it was maddening, and especially if it was too easy.

That was what made it work for her.

Yet, now…she wasn't sure what had gone wrong.

She couldn't think.

And, without her thoughts…what was she?

The mug stood alone on the desk, slowly growing cold in the early morning hours.

…

She stepped out into the rain, felt it dancing along the streets below her feet. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes, trying to wash away the doubts that lingered at the edge of her mind. She looked up, hailed a cab, and quickly jumped inside.

She didn't know where she was headed.

She shook her head. Her thoughts had become loaded with deeper meaning. Just like all of their conversations over the years.

She looked up, surprised. What was she doing here?

She didn't recall paying the cabbie; she just knew that she was knocking on the huge doors, badge in hand as she dodged the raindrops falling from the edge of the eaves of the old, hulking building.

She saw the familiar face, his ancient eyes cracking with a smile borne of the years of keeping the collections orderly, the words of the gifted waiting for those inquisitive enough to let them into their lives.

He let her in without a word, and she slipped inside, shaking off her coat quickly. He pointed wordlessly down the hall, the glow of the stacks beckoning her as they did when she needed to think.

She smiled softly to him, gently squeezed his shoulder, and set off down the hallway towards the stairs near the rear of the building.

In the quiet of the stacks, she felt her head begin to pound. She walked through the main aisles, craning her neck to look down them to see who she would be spending some time with tonight. She meandered through the children's section, the biography section, the true crime section until she found herself in the fiction section. Selecting a row at random, she began to peruse the shelves, looking for the one that would catch her eye.

She passed through several aisles, the spines of the books becoming a blur in her mind's eye. Colors, words flitted in and out of her brain, but she couldn't see anything clearly. She paused in the middle of the aisle and slowly closed her eyes. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. She fisted her eyes, her thoughts whirling in her head.

No.

Not here.

Even here. Where she felt safest from the world, from herself; where she could lose herself in the greatest minds this world had to offer.

She opened her eyes, set off down the aisle, back downstairs. She clenched her fists tightly in her pockets, nodded to the guard, and stepped outside.

…

She set foot inside her flat, tossing her keys on the counter. She quickly shrugged off her jacket and kicked her shoes into the corner. She groped along the wall, flicking the single switch that lit her flat just slightly. She chuckled mirthlessly.

Mood lighting.

She sat down on her couch, a blanket wrapped around her legs. She found her mother's ring in her fingers, gently turning it, running the edges of her fingertips along the small stone set there. The shadows of her flat lengthened, slowly reaching out for her.

She looked up; the lady in purple stared down at her wordlessly. Her thoughts slammed together, jostling for dominance. Flashes of memory came to her rapidly…the bloom of the explosion, the smell of the blast and of death, the muddled cries and sobs of pain, the vacant stares of the survivors, the cold, lifeless stare he wore when he left that day…

Wait.

No.

He did not deserve to be associated with that.

He was all that was good about her job, her day, her life…

Wait.

She knew he made her job fun, made her laugh in the direst of situations, but, when did her life become linked with the mere thought of him?

And now, what did she have? A blank page, lifeless eyes, a resigned and weary voice, and a thought process that was unfocused, undisciplined.

She smiled bitterly. Again, she would put her mask on. She had lines to recite. A role to play.

Just her, her calling, and her thoughts. For what little good they did her today.

She did not know what tomorrow would bring. She did not know what she would do to pass the time. She did not know what she would do to try to understand.

She did not know what she would do…without him.

…

A/N: I know. This one was even more angsty than the last. This is where the muses took me. Blame them, not me.


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